Nocturne
by xLeather and Lacex
Summary: Before Twilight, before Bella, there was just Edward. Edward and his angel. This is their story. Rated M for adult themes rather than adult scenes, just in case. *Work in progress, goodness knows how long it'll take me get this finished!*
1. Chapter 1

Nocturne

**A/N: **I actually promised myself I wouldn't even read Twilight, let alone write any fanfic based on it. But I ended up doing both. This is primarily (in fact, completely, for now) an Edward-centric fic, mostly because I find Bella far too irritating to even read let alone write without doing something horrible to her involving cold water torture and clothes pegs. But I think Edward is really interesting, and I wanted to explore his character further – why he's so possessive, jealous and controlling. So I did. This is all pre-Twilight and pre-all-the-vampire-stuff (though not much, I wasn't sure how much he'd remember so I set it in 1917/18, plus vampire-version is recalling the story), it's about Edward's 'real' life, basically. It's sort of a memoir, really. And I fancied setting it in Paris. With the main character as an O/C. Sorry about that. But at the moment it isn't directly relevant to the story of Twilight Edward so it's not an issue that it's probably entirely not canon, right? Though if it changes I'll try my best to keep to canon. I know next to nothing about his un-Cullen family so I've sort of built my own picture of them, too. Apologies for laziness with research, if there's anything glaring that I've missed let me know! I wasn't going to switch between past and present originally but my wonderful friend Kim gave me a fantastic idea whilst we waited far too long for our lunch to arrive in a restaurant the other day, so my plan has changed somewhat so we will see what happens. Don't slate my past/present tense switches either, it's the nature of how I'm writing it – written down as Edward remembers it. Imagine him speaking it. Oh, and for once I do have a plan for this (as in, I know where it'll go, just not how it'll get there, as yet) so bear with me, I have a masters degree to get this year as well...

**SUMMARY: **Paris, early 1917. Edward wants nothing more than to be fighting in the Great War, but he's too young and he's already tried fooling the system once. So he's stuck at home, with a father destroyed by the very war Edward wants to be a part of, succumbing fast to the 'demon drink', and a mother making herself ill with worry, plus two younger sisters who think of little else but marriage and society. Bang on cue, the unpredictable, mysterious, and utterly charming Sérafine, the wayward youngest daughter of an eminent Paris lawyer, appears on the scene. Edward's life, which he once hated, is turned upside down by her crazy schemes and 'hang the consequences' approach to life, and he finds himself wishing for normality again. One thing leads to another, thing get out of hand, and then things get even more out of hand, and Sérafine's unpredictable nature appears at its worst. Sérafine does what Sérafine does best, and we find out why Edward is the way he is. And why Sérafine is the way she is. Enjoy...

**DISCLAIMER: **Obviously Edward is not mine (a girl can dream, can't she?), though the way I've interpreted him I think is (in that I've made him very European – he's always struck me as such). However, Sérafine, and the plotline, are, as far as I know, entirely mine and any stealing of other writers' plots or character ideas is entirely unintentional.

**CHAPTER ONE**

So maybe my mother keeping me under some form of house arrest rather than letting me do what I really wanted to do – that is, lie about my age and go off with the army to actually make some use of the War – was probably conducive to my staying alive. For a while, at least. But it was certainly not conducive to me doing anything exciting with my life. I simply could not sit around doing next to nothing and feel like I was doing any good at all. In fact, what I found most irritating was that my mother was exactly the same as I was then, but the sort of ruling that kept me locked in my own house seemed not to apply to her. She was a great one for caring too much about other people and not worrying about herself enough. An angel. I wouldn't have changed my mother for all the world. But to my sixteen-year-old mind, of course, her worrying was incredibly annoying. And I was spending my entire life with her. Of course, I could have got a job, but, if truth be told, I was happier (if rather bored) sitting at home with a book or at my piano. Maybe I was being petulant, I was the oldest, I was supposed to be helping my father bring home the bacon. Not that we needed the extra, really. But my father wanted me to follow him into the law courts. Or at least, he did, before he started to drink too much, and ended up on the wrong side of those same law courts. It wasn't his fault, really. He had been in the Army at the very start of the Great War. He saw some terrible things. So I didn't blame him. I still don't. Not really.

Despite my general lethargy though, I started to feel terrible about my non-existent contribution to supporting my family. So I stopped keeping my music to myself and took it out into some of the dingy, backstreet piano bars in Paris. It didn't pay much, but at least it paid. And I'd already vowed to myself that I would never follow in the footsteps of my father, first the law courts, then the drinking, then the drugs. I never thought about the army part. I had promised myself though that if I didn't find a way into the Army, I would just become a musician. Back then, the whole jazz and vaudeville scene was in its early incarnations in America, and I just always assumed that I would take off when that did. Though it was by following what my mother affectionately called "those huge, mad ideas of yours", that meant I had the chance to meet Sérafine, and that meant my life was going to end up completely turned on its head before the year was out.

Sérafine was incredible. She was inspiring, unpredictable, frightening, carefree and reassuring all at the same time. She did everything she wasn't supposed to do, but she did it quietly, which made her all the more exciting. She smoked cigarettes, she played in dingy little piano bars, she had her own opinions, and she spoke to me. And from the moment I met her I was completely under her spell. Not just because of her looks, which were unusual in a very good way, and not because of her long, glossy red hair that she nearly always wore loose down her back, and not because she broke all the rules, but because she did everything she wasn't supposed to with charm and impeccable manners. She wasn't some bawdy, cheap tavern girl, after all. She was the daughter of a very eminent Paris lawyer and his wonderfully eccentric ex-opera singer wife. Her siblings got her dose of unpleasantness; her three sisters were the most vapid, self-centred, disrespectful people I have ever met, and her older brother, whilst good to Sérafine, was rather too well-known in rather too many of the city's brothels to be too highly respected.

I remember the night I first met Sérafine perfectly. Every detail is there, like it happened yesterday, and I hope it will be etched in my memory for the rest of my time on this earth. It is one of the strongest memories of before. Which I know sounds cliché. But you don't know Sérafine, after all. The night I met her was a cold one, even though it was well into April by then. I wasn't even 17 quite yet, but I was just about able to get away with going to certain backstreet bars in Paris. Mostly, I frequented the piano bars, usually just sitting unobtrusively in a corner with a glass of something and a couple of cigarettes, same as everyone else. I didn't expect anyone to notice me, anyway. Occasionally though I played too, usually pretending to myself that there was some owner of some famous concert hall, or a composer looking for new muses, there that night. That night though, I didn't play. I just wanted to lose myself in that night, and I certainly managed.

When I first saw Sérafine, she was leaning casually by the bar, looking out over the crowd with what I thought was a slightly arrogant glint in her eye. A young man was talking to her, though he seemed rather too interested in what she had to say. Any other girl would have felt horribly uncomfortable. But I remember watching their exchange for a while, and rather than trying to get away as quickly as possible, Sérafine was engaging in banter and compliment exchange with the man. Only her compliments were incredibly backhanded, and I remember laughing to myself at how charming her delivery of such cutting comments was. I sat for a while watching her, idly wondering what I could have come back with had it been me standing by the bar with her. Of course, if I had actually been in that young man's place, I expect I would have just stood there dumbly, rather than coming back with all the comments my brain was inventing at a distance. But anyway. After a while, the musicians began to play, their notes floating above the ongoing chatter in the small, smoky bar. I loved the atmosphere in those bars.

Sérafine wasn't even officially on the bill that night, probably because she was the only woman performing. I had never seen, and never saw, any others. She approached the little stage to mutterings about unseemly behaviour – she was wearing the latest fashion, her hair was down, and she was smoking a cigarette at the time – and about how "women shouldn't be allowed to partake in such frivolous activity", and didn't she have a husband, a father, or even a brother to be looking after. Her face was hard, but she ignored them, taking a final, deliberate draw on her cigarette, looking over the people in the crowded little bar with that same slightly arrogant glint in her eye. Ironic that all I wished for at that point was to understand what she was thinking. Grinding out the cigarette in the ashtray on the top of the piano, she took up her position on the stool, flicking her hair over her shoulder as she did so. I remember the way her hair flashed red and gold in the flickering light, hoping she would do it again. Her hair was beautiful. Is. When she started playing, the muttering at first increased in volume, but when people caught the strain of the piece, they slowly began to fall silent. I didn't recognise the melody she was playing, but it was astonishing. I found out later that it was her own composition. Or rather, her own improvisation, for she never had any music with her. Dreamy but dramatic and strong at the same time. I hadn't held out much hope either, really, considering she wasn't billed to play at all, and was playing at the very end of the night, when people had already begun wending their way homewards. But this had definitely been worth staying for. I had been intrigued to see her at the bar anyway; I'd wondered who she was, and I wanted to avoid my father coming back from one of his drinking binges – I always thought that if I just wasn't home at the time, it wasn't really happening; he was still my father after all. It wasn't just listening to Sérafine play though that was so captivating, it was watching her, too. She was mesmerising that night. Her long, elegant fingers danced so delicately over the keys that I found it hard to believe that it was that gentle touch that kept producing such a dramatic sound. Her eyes were closed, too, as she played, and she looked almost as if she was the music, she put so much of herself into it. When she finished playing, the room fell completely silent for a few seconds, before tentative applause started up even as mutterings from some of the more stubborn in the crowd began again. She didn't make much out of it, as I remember, but I do remember her thanking her audience very politely, in a voice as captivating as her music, and I also remember her throwing her hecklers a look that I came to know as uniquely Sérafine, and that I could never quite explain or understand.

I probably could have been more forthcoming. Should have, really, not could. Even as she seemed to look in my direction, I was up and gone. I like to imagine that she probably threw her look at my retreating back as I hurried away. What I certainly was not prepared for was for her to come after me. But she did. I remember greeting her very politely and asking her what business had her out alone so late at night, pretending I hadn't just been in that bar, watching her, completely taken in by her, even though I seemed to know that she knew exactly who I was and where I'd just been.

"Looking for you, obviously," she replied, in a voice that was all silk and music and cigarettes.

"Why on earth would you do that?" I remember asking her incredulously, and immediately wanting to kick myself for being so rude. I often tended to lose propriety around her; she was far too good at taking me completely by surprise.

"Such a charming way to greet a lady who has just run nearly two miles in the dark to catch up with you," she said in that captivating voice of hers, and I remember the little smile that formed on her lips then, how she managed to look both sarcastic and very polite at the same time.

"I apologise. Mademoiselle...?" I asked, in a vain attempt to regain my manners.

"Cordier. Mademoiselle Sérafine Cordier. Though Mademoiselle never fails to make me feel somewhat like a primped up little poodle, or a mad old spinster ," she replied, somehow managing to maintain a perfectly straight face.

"Sorry. Sérafine," I stuttered. I was trying to act, sound and feel like I still had some semblance of the charm I usually emanated. My mother always told me that I didn't have to try with things like that, and usually I didn't, but somehow everything was different with Sérafine. I think she knew that she could out-charm me in an instant, if she so desired.

Sérafine shrugged, and turned to go back the way she had come.

"Wait! You can't walk back alone, not now," I called to her, miraculously rediscovering my chivalry. She turned around, her hair dark red in the warm light cast by the street lamps either side of us.

"I walked here alone, " she politely pointed out, flashing me a rather disarming smile.

"That's not the point..." I started, flustered and fumbling for my words.

"I'll be fine." she said, reassuringly. I wasn't convinced, but I let it go then, hoping nothing would happen to her. I would feel terrible then.

"Honestly, I'll be fine," she reiterated with a soft smile, as if she had somehow felt my doubts. She turned to go, and then stopped again, turning just as fluidly back to face me.

"I hope I will see you soon?" she asked, turning away again before I had a chance to answer. "You should play some of your compositions, you know. They're beautiful," she called musically over her shoulder, before melting into the shadows cast by the flickering gas lamps.

"Thank you?" was my puzzled and rather-too-late response. By then she had completely disappeared into the darkness.

I walked home very slowly that night, whilst Sérafine found her way into most of my thoughts. It took me a while to realise that she had mentioned my compositions, and that they were beautiful. I was almost sure they hadn't gone anywhere near that bar; it was notorious for hecklers and traditionalists who wanted to feel like they were breaking the rules, and not for precocious little upstarts like Sérafine and myself. Maybe I had played them there before, or maybe she had been somewhere else, where I had played them. I couldn't remember. Maybe I would play them there one day. My thoughts drifted again. If Sérafine thought they were beautiful, she, who played so beautifully herself, then they couldn't be that bad. Maybe it would be all right for me to play them there. She seemed at that moment to be the most important person in that tiny, smoky room, the only person worth impressing. I didn't care what other people thought about my music then. I only cared about her. Frustrated that she was taking up so much of my thinking space, I tried to think of other things, only to end up thinking about her all the more. Have you ever noticed that? The harder you try to forget about something, the more you end up thinking about it. And the more irritating it gets.

For the next few weeks, I did everything I could to avoid going to any of those clubs; I even accompanied my father to work and chaperoned my younger sisters to about five separate society balls. It scared me at that point, how involved my mind was with just one person. I didn't want that. I was a huge romantic then. I still am, really. But I didn't want to become a huge obsessive. I never want to, but I do. I can't help it. It's just something that happens. I get so scared of getting involved with something I don't want to that I spend all my time thinking of absolutely nothing else. Ironic. And irritating. But I couldn't stay away from that club forever, and I really couldn't face chaperoning my sisters anywhere else of an evening, even to avoid my father, much as I loved them. Maybe I should have found another club. But I didn't want to. Same as always. I want something, and don't want it at the same time. So one unseasonable, rainy and downright unpleasant night in July, I finally steeled myself to go back there. And I would keep my unconscious promise to Sérafine that I would play. It took me a while to get up the courage to pick up my music from the piano and force myself out of the door. I told myself that it didn't matter if she was there or not, that she would just be pleased that I'd played my own compositions, that the audience would like my music either way. I liked my compositions, and I was proud of them. It would have killed me to have them torn down and ripped up by the listeners. Part of me hoped upon hope that Sérafine wouldn't be there, but finally I had to admit defeat, mostly, and admit to myself that I was intrigued by her and I wanted to see her, know she was there, even if it was just a glimpse of her red hair, or even a snippet of her voice, carrying across the club, or something, ridiculous as it was.

The club was fairly busy that night, and for most of the night I didn't see her at all. I didn't want to admit how crushed I felt. I started devising a strategy to leave without letting down the proprietor, when I saw her, talking, ironically, to the proprietor. I remember almost laughing at that point, and just about catching myself, turning it into a cough. Just that glimpse of her gave me the confidence to walk boldly up to the grand piano. I remember winding all my courage almost to breaking point as I took my seat, telling myself I just didn't care anymore. At all. And then I played. As soon as I heard myself play the first few notes, I felt as if all the tension had left me; it felt as if I was hearing myself playing from somewhere way up above me. I deliberately immersed myself in the music, going somewhere completely different in my mind. It was almost a shock when I brought myself back to reality, and people were actually applauding me. I managed to retain my composure whilst I thanked the audience, then made a run for the bar. At least some people had liked it. I hoped and hoped that Sérafine was one of them, and not one of the people muttering angrily about "these young bohemian types". I tried not to let the negativity bother me, but I knew it would. It still does. I will always be a ridiculous perfectionist. At any rate, I remember at that point that Sérafine just appeared beside me whilst I rolled a cigarette. I didn't know where she had come from, or even how long she had been there. I remember looking at her infuriatingly dumbly, though she didn't seem to notice.

"That was incredible, you know," she murmured, softly.

"T-thank you," I remember stuttering, feeling a bit of an idiot.

"What were you thinking about, whilst you played?" she asked, surprising me. "I thought you would overthink it, you're too conscious of everyone judging you." It wasn't even a question, just a statement. I hope I remained looking fairly impassive. It was a frighteningly accurate evaluation, and I remember being completely incapable of knowing how on earth to answer such a statement, because, even now, I have no idea what I was thinking about then. I was usually very perceptive, able to at least accurately guess what other people were thinking, and able usually to understand my own thoughts. But again, Sérafine was different. Instead of answering, I just gave a shrug.

"I don't know. I was just – thinking." I finally admitted, promptly changing the subject – it was something mundane about the weather, I think – so that she didn't dwell on it.

"Why don't you stay for a drink?" Sérafine asked suddenly, her manners as charming as ever, despite her complete disregard for etiquette. I think she probably knew that I would keep making a mess of it if we tried to be proper with one another. Her manner was so charming in fact that I almost forgot that she had basically just examined my brain. Though not completely. I remember suddenly feeling nervous about spending time with her, as if secretly I already knew what would be in store for me.

"I should be getting back," I said, lamely.

"What, in this weather?" Sérafine asked, incredulous, inclining her head towards the high window. It was blowing a gale, and pouring with rain. I sighed.

"I'm supposed to be accompanying my father to work tomorrow," I said, heavily, though I actually had absolutely no intention of going and was still trying to think of a credible excuse.

"Tomorrow? Tomorrow's another day. We still have all night," she shrugged, lighting a cigarette and offering me one, despite the fairly obvious presence of my own cigarette on the table next to my left hand. I took one anyway though, just to give me something to do that didn't involve trying not to stare stupidly at Sérafine.

"What are you drinking?" I asked her, at length, motioning towards the bar. She shrugged again, that trademark, nonchalant move of hers.

"Surprise me, Monsieur!" she answered, with an exaggerated flourish of her hand that still held her lit cigarette, and a laugh. I couldn't help then but laugh with her; she was addictive, and impossible to ignore.

When I returned from the bar, Sérafine was leaning back, casual but elegant, in her chair, her right hand, still holding the cigarette, draped nonchalantly over the back. Her expression was mysterious, and thoughtful.

"Edward," she began, looking speculatively up at me. I was astounded that she knew my name; I was sure I wasn't actually named on the bill that night. Maybe I hadn't been paying attention. Though I know I thought it was strange, how much she knew about me without knowing me at all. "Do you ever just want to go somewhere, far away, and just not come back?"

I stood quietly for a moment, still holding two glasses of brandy.

"Well, yes. I suppose I do," I said, my voice faltering. She took a glass from me, seemingly oblivious to my uncertain astonishment. "Why?"

"We should go somewhere," she replied, at length, as she took a deep draw on her cigarette, exhaling slowly and thoughtfully, so that the blueish, sweet cigarette smoke spiralled upwards, dancing in the faint glow from the chandelier above us. I looked at her, contemplating. She was idly turning the glass, still full, on the spot on the table where she had placed it.

"What, now?" I asked, taken aback. I never could understand Sérafine. That was the problem, I tried too hard.

"Well, why not?" she challenged, taking a swig from her glass, still staring up at the disappearing cigarette smoke above us.

"Where would we go?" was my next question. I think she rolled her eyes then.

"I have no idea, Edward. Just, somewhere," she responded, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. She looked intently at me for a while, and I remember getting rather too distracted for rather too long.

"Come on!" she urged me, breaking into my dreamworld by grabbing my hand and trying to pull me up from my seat.

"What? Where are we going?" I asked, as she succeeded in dragging me out of the door into the still-pouring rain.

"You'll get soaked!" I protested.

"So will you!" she retorted, laughing at what was, most probably, my astonished expression.

I remember her taking a deep breath as we emerged into the pouring rain, and I remember that when she turned around to face me I thought I would never see anything so beautiful again. Her hair was blowing behind her, save for the loose tendrils that were already soaking wet and lingering about her face, and her eyes, which I noticed then were an impossibly intense, dark blue, were positively shining. Her pale skin was almost luminous in the moonlight and flushed slightly, whether with the surprising cold after the stuffy bar or anticipation I didn't know, but it was beautiful.

It was exhilarating, running through the rain, through the mazes of dark Paris streets, freezing cold, even in July, and soaked to the skin, but hand in hand, not going anywhere in particular. That moment, then, was where my life really started. Though then I didn't know how little of my life I really had left, that was also the time when I really lived.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

It was a while before I saw Sérafine again. I told myself I didn't mind that much, but at the same time, I hated it. I wondered where she was, what she was doing. I hoped she hadn't forgotten me. Possessive, as always. I thought she was probably off with someone else. It didn't mean anything to her. She'd get bored, move on. With alarming frequency. Well, at least, she did with a lot of things. Some things she would stick at; some things, but not many.

I didn't see her again until at least July, and, as ever, I wasn't expecting it. She did what she always did, and just appeared. It was at one of those society things that I secretly hated, one of those where my mother would float around and my sisters would go a bit mad talking and flirting with various young men. I hadn't wanted to go at all, my father was very ill by then, and, much as I loathed the darker side I knew he had, he was still my father. This time though, my mother had as good as forced me into my dinner suit and out of the house and left me in charge of Emilie, Eleanore and Emanuele, all at the same time. All of whom couldn't care less whether I was there or not, and I'm quite sure Emanuele, who was actually older than me, really did not need a chaperone at all. I wasn't really a great chaperone anyway. I somehow always managed, awkwardly, to get myself surrounded by young women; something, apparently, to do with my "inherent charm", as my mother called it, and that Sérafine laughed at. It was whilst trying to charm several of them at once so that they'd go away that I saw Sérafine. Well, she saw me first, and politely excused herself from the group she had managed to gather during the evening. She took me by surprise, as ever, appearing, gliding, from behind me. One of her looks in the direction of the other girls sent them scattering, some giggling, some muttering rudely under their breath about her, and some just looking plain relieved. Sérafine gave a small, ironic laugh as she inclined her head politely to me.

"You look rather handsome," she said, approvingly, giving my lapel a tweak. I think I probably blushed then. She gave a quiet laugh.

"And you look beautiful" I replied. Protocol, really. Politeness. But she truly did look beautiful that night. Her dress was dark green silk, I remember, which she wore off the shoulder, and for once her hair was up, though not particularly neatly, curls escaping from the emerald studded combs that held it.

"I've never seen you at one of these circuses before," she said, eye contact intense and unwavering.

"No," I agreed, stupidly. She looked at me, questioning.

"Oh, chaperoning my sisters," I added clumsily, vaguely waving a hand in the direction I had last seen them.

"Not chaperoning them very well, by the looks of it," answered Sérafine, her eyes glittering, almost laughing at me.

When I didn't answer, she carried on.

"I'm here with my sisters too. My mother's determined to get us all married off by next summer, apparently."

Again, I stayed silent. Again, my trusty charm had deserted me. Sérafine was still giving me one of her very intense looks, which wasn't really helping.

"Well, monsieur, I shall let you get back to your, er, chaperoning. My mother will have a fit if one of us doesn't charm the goodness knows what out of Monsieur goodness knows who over there," Sérafine said, with a beautiful, disarming smile. Finally, I managed to laugh. She went to walk past me, perfectly polite, but as she moved past, she stood on tiptoe, and with her hand at my neck, whispered to me.

"Meet me later, in the gardens. We can't stay here all night. It's infernal."

Then, cool as anything, she continued past me, towards whoever her mother wanted to marry off one of the girls to. I stood still for a while, still feeling her hand, hearing her soft, musical whisper, still tingling from where I had felt her breath against my cheek.

"Come on! At least look like you're enjoying yourself!"

The cheerful giggle beside me distracted me, and I turned to see the youngest of my sisters standing there, eyes shining with excitement. I smiled at her.

"What are you doing here? You're supposed to stick with the others!" I reprimanded, trying to sound angry, but it never worked with Milly. I was really quite useless at being angry with my baby sister.

"Well, Monsieur de Rouvier, over there, has taken a shine to Emanuele and he wants very badly to meet Mama and Papa!" gabbled Emilie. I rolled my eyes.

"Emanuele might be the oldest but she is still only seventeen, Milly," I sighed.

"So? She'll be eighteen soon and old enough to get married! And, de Rouvier is one of the richest men in Paris, how can they refuse that? And he's so handsome too Edward, they look adorable together. Come on!" Emilie was relentless, so I just gave in and let her drag me by the hand to where Emanuele and Eleanore were standing, talking to an admittedly fairly good-looking young man. I rolled my eyes at Emanuele, who threw me a very evil glare, and then shook my head at Eleanore, who was trying, as ever, to steal her sister's thunder.

"Monsieur de Rouvier?" I asked, putting on my intimidating protective-brother voice.

"Certainly. And you must be the older brother of these charming young ladies?" answered the man, offering me a cigarette. I took it out of propriety, and as I lit it, I looked at him, calculating.

"You seem to have taken a shine to my sisters, Monsieur." I commented, in my best society-charmer voice, though not without an edge.

"What?" he laughed, slightly derisively, I thought. "You think I'm going to run off and elope with your sister?" Emanuele and Eleanore's eyes lit up. Glaring at them both, I rolled my own eyes, turning back to the man I was liking less and less by the minute.

"Oh no, of course not!" I said, with a fake, jovial laugh. "But you must of course meet our parents! Unfortunately they were otherwise engaged tonight, but I'm sure they would be delighted."

"Oh, he must meet Mama and Papa!" exclaimed Eleanore, excitedly.

"But of course," I said charmingly. "If, Monsieur, you would like to drop by my father's offices during the week his assistant will be more than happy to help you."

Monsieur de Rouvier bowed courteously, and turned to leave. My job done, I turned to both Emanuele and Eleanore.

"You realise if he tries anything I'll break both his legs?" I hissed at my sisters, as soon as I was confident that he was out of earshot.

"He is handsome and charming, though," persisted Eleanore.

"Ellie, he could be the most eligible man on the planet and I still wouldn't like him. You are only fifteen!"

"You sound more like Papa every day," sulked Emanuele. For the oldest sibling, she certainly didn't act like it sometimes.

Nettled, I pulled a face. "Well, someone has to," I muttered under my breath, turning away.

Just then, untimely as always, Sérafine walked past.

"Remember what I said," she murmured, in a low voice. I motioned to my sisters. Sérafine gave me a quizzical look.

"Well, they have to get home, don't they?" I hissed.

"We can walk them. Or put them in a taxi," shrugged Sérafine. "Come on."

"We're expected home now, you know," I called to my sisters, who looked about to disappear into the throngs of people again.

"You're so boring, Edward!" groaned Emanuele. She was clearly still smarting from having to be chaperoned by her younger brother, and now from my very blatant brush-off of de Rouvier.

"Ten minutes?" pleaded Milly, her eyes shining hopefully. Usually I gave in to her, but today I was determined not to.

"Not tonight Milly, I'm sorry," I said. I caught sight of Sérafine in the very edge of my vision, smirking at me.

"Who's she?" asked Emanuele, in a cold voice, once we'd all made it outside.

"A friend of mine. From the club. She's walking back our way too, and I'm not leaving her to walk alone." I said quickly. I knew Sérafine was smirking behind me; we both knew she lived in completely the opposite direction.

"A friend from the club?" Emanuele said mockingly. "How come you're allowed a lover and I'm not?" She could be downright unpleasant sometimes, and downright immature.

"She is not my lover!" I said, defensively, starting to get angry. I didn't know what she was. I didn't know what we were. Emanuele was still laughing in her cold, mocking way.

"Please, Emanuele," I hissed at her.

"I'll tell Mama that you spent the whole evening hidden away with some girl or other. A cheap one." she continued, nastily.

"Oh, for God's sake!" I snapped, losing it. I hated that she was being so unpleasant about Sérafine. My Sérafine.

I turned to apologise to Sérafine, expecting her at least to look slightly angry, but she was laughing. Albeit in a sardonic, overarching way, but she was laughing. I tried to relax slightly. But I couldn't relax enough to trust Emanuele.

"You dare say another word, and I will personally make sure no messages from your precious de Rouvier get anywhere near our father's offices." I threatened, in a low, menacing voice. Emanuele looked like she might hit me.

The walk home was a very tense one, with all the completely unfounded distaste Emanuele had for Sérafine. I couldn't wait to get my sisters home and out of the way, so I could have Sérafine all to myself again. I hadn't expected this level of possessiveness over one person. Especially over one person I'd hardly seen, someone I'd only met once before. But there was something intoxicating about her and suddenly all I could think about was her.

It was a huge relief to reach our front door. I left the others there, feeling like a weight had been lifted.

"Aren't you coming in?" Milly asked me.

"I have to get Sérafine home first. Tell Mother that I should be back later and I'm just seeing a friend home safely. If she's still up, that is," I said to my little sister. At least she could be trusted not to be a bitch.

I waited until they had all gone inside before I turned back towards Sérafine, full of apologies for my sisters' behaviour.

"I'm so sorry, Emanuele's just, well..."

"She's just seventeen and angry, I'm sure," Sérafine said, surprisingly calm. "Let's just go somewhere else, where she isn't for a while." she suggested. I could have kissed her then. But again, I was a coward.

At that moment I didn't question her, or ask her where we would go, or anything. Although I was too afraid to, I just wanted to hold her and claim her as my own. I didn't want anyone else close to her like that. And I hated myself for feeling that way. That level of control never usually crossed my mind, except with Sérafine. But then again, she could take it, and she knew full well when I was being stupid, and knew full well that I was scared of her. She wasn't scared of me. I never knew what she was going to do and I hated that.

We ended up sitting in the park, not far from her house, that became our park, the place we always went together. Sérafine always said that when she died she wanted to be buried here. It was beautiful. Or at least, some of it was. We sat under cover of trees, by the pond. You could look up and see the stars through the gaps in the branches. And that's what we did. Until Sérafine got bored. Then we ended up in some of the seedier bars in the backstreets of the city. And in those instances, I always ended up drunk. Just like my father. I was no better, really. I just didn't let it take over. If I'd been around longer, it probably would have done. Anyway.

Sérafine always had insults hurled at her in those places, but she really didn't seem to care. At least, if she did care she never really showed it. I only ever saw her cry once, and that was nothing to do with anything anyone said. She was a fantastic actress. But anyway, as soon as she demonstrated just how much absinthe she could drink, the insults seemed to die down. Strangely enough though, she never seemed particularly drunk. However unsteady on my feet I was, she always seemed fine. She always ended up walking me back, leaning on each other and laughing at ridiculous things. More often than not, we didn't go home; we ended up in that park. And despite the fact we would be fairly intoxicated, nothing beyond a peck on the cheek or her resting her head on my chest, ever happened. It was strange, because there was enough chemistry there for all manner of things to happen. I always wanted them to, but somehow it was always deflected. I hated that too, because I didn't know what she wanted. I still don't know, and I probably never will. There were many occasions when I thought she was leading me on, playing with me, but I still kept going back. Time and time again. I should have known really that as soon as anything happened she'd be off like a shot. Like she'd planned it that way.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

This is probably the part of my time before, that I remember most clearly. Just one night. Then, she just vanished. As quickly as she'd come into my life, my Sérafine, my angel, was gone again. And all it took was one night.

It was another night at the club. We'd got accustomed to conducting our, whatever it was, at that club. Not a relationship. At least, I don't think that was what Sérafine saw it as. She was too flighty, too impossible. I can't ever imagine her settling down with anyone. Not unless they were mad as birds too, unless they didn't mind her being impossible. Maybe she did love me then, but God, if I had even considered asking what we had, what it was; she would have run a mile. And all I wanted to do was be that person who proposes to their first love, and it's all happy ever after. But that was not Sérafine. She played with my mind like nothing I've ever known. And she loved it.

That night started like, well, almost all the others. I set out, not knowing if she was going to be there, though I always hoped. This time though, she was there, waiting for me outside. Not short of conversation, mind, but that day something seemed different. Not least that. Usually she would be completely invisible and have me wandering aimlessly around for half the night, looking for her. I should have known she'd have some crazy new idea tonight, but for some reason, it didn't register. Maybe I didn't want it to.

"Sérafine?" I said, surprised as I approached her.

"Edward!" she replied, smiling her beautiful, mysterious, enigmatic smile, her impossibly dark blue eyes shimmering in the warm light. It was late summer by then, September. The months had flown by whilst I was doing whatever I was doing with Sérafine. The summer had been a haze of Sérafine and not much else. Even though we'd never even kissed.

"Are you playing tonight?" I asked her, leaning towards her to light her cigarette for her before I lit mine. The same match; a show of bravado. She probably thought I was getting too comfortable with her. Anyway. I remember the way she always smelled. A mixture of cigarette smoke, spice and something floral. Her unique scent, and even then, before, like a drug. It was particularly potent that night.

"Not tonight," she replied softly. I loved her voice. "I thought I'd just make the most of listening. And the piece I wanted to play is still a mess. You should help me with it." A smile lingered on her lips and she took a deep drag on her cigarette.

"I wish I had something new, now," I mused, more to myself than anyone else. But Sérafine answered anyway.

"We'll think of something," she promised me. I always liked it when she referred to both us as a collective whole. She didn't do it often. Unless she was saying something meaningful. I should have noticed that too.

She took my hand then, and we left the warm evening behind us, vanishing into the small smoky bar. Her hand felt so delicate in mine, her long, slim fingers interlocking with mine, and the pearl bracelets she always wore that were far too big for her clicking against my watch. I always wanted everyone to see us then, I truly thought she was the most beautiful girl ever; at that point I could never see me loving another girl. Not in that true, pure way. It's different now.

As we approached the bar, she let go of my hand, and I felt deflated.

"What are you drinking?" she asked, surprisingly close to my ear for her height.

"Sérafine! I'm the gentleman, I'm supposed to be buying the drinks!" I said, in a moment of either crazy humour or chivalry. Sérafine always got the first round.

Drinks in hand, we went to sit on one of the low sofas in the corner, one of the ones lit by flickering candles, more for atmosphere than anything. We never spoke much, not really, not unless there were things worth talking about.

"What on earth is she wearing?" hissed Sérafine then, laughing as she delicately indicated a ridiculously overdressed woman wearing a dress several sizes too small for her.

"Sérafine! Is that necessary? You're as bad as Emanuele!" I hissed back. She looked at me, an eyebrow raised sarcastically, which made me laugh, despite myself. I miss those catty little comments. She could be the picture of charming, but with me, that had mostly been dropped, a long time ago. The real Sérafine was far less confident and far more insecure than you'd ever pick up from talking to her. I was still surprised by it sometimes. Though I suppose everyone is a bit like that. Either way, I only loved her more for it, and despite everything, she always maintained her mystery. It was that I could never resist. I probably still couldn't, actually.

As the night drew on, her comments slowed as the music engrossed her. I could tell she was thinking about her own piece, and maybe mine. At one point, she even leaned back against me. She never did that outside of our little private world. All I could smell was her captivating perfume. That was also the night I got a bit bolder. As she leant back against me, I experimented with twisting a lock of her thick red hair through my fingers, working the ringlet right down to the tip – the colour still astounded me – and even venturing to trail my finger down her neck with a feather light touch. The dress she wore, royal blue tonight, was another one cut off the shoulder, like the one at the ball. She had pearls round her neck as well tonight, rather than just on her wrists.

"You look very grown-up tonight, Sérafine," I said softly, into her hair rather than to her.

"Just grown-up?" she exclaimed suddenly, laughing. I hadn't expected her to hear me. I sighed.

"Grown-up, and beautiful" I conceded finally. She didn't reply, instead kissing me gently on the cheek. I remember getting frustrated with her then. I still couldn't read her, and I still wanted to. Maybe it was obvious. I don't know.

"Come on, "she said, suddenly. "Let's go. We can always try getting your piece sorted out."

"Now?" I asked, surprised, echoing the first time we met.

"Yes, now! Come on!" she urged. I had no power to resist her. She was looking at me with those incredible eyes of hers. The same colour as her dress. I always liked blue. Especially on her.

"Are you all right?" I asked, almost alarmed at her urgency. She just laughed.

"Don't be so concerned all the time, Edward!" she said, laughing, trying to nettle me.

So we went. I always ended up giving in to her. I think I was a bit afraid of her wrath, I'd seen her angry before, and I didn't want the sharp edge of her tongue and the sheer explosive power of her rage turned on me. And she never did turn it on me.

I enjoyed the walk back through the streets of Paris. I always did. It always reminded me of the first night I'd met her. I wasn't expecting us to end up at her house though. I always walked her to her door, but I'd never been invited in.

"Your parents?" I asked, a bit nervous.

"Think it's about time I started all this courting business," she retorted, laughing. "And nobody else will mind, you should see what Clemence gets up to!"

I didn't pursue the question, instead marvelling at the haphazard beauty of her family house. Like her. It looked like it had been groomed and perfect once, but now it looked nicely lived in. I wished my own home felt this welcoming. Mine always looked too pristine, too perfect. Maybe my mother was overcompensating in trying to emulate normalcy. I blame my father for that at least, if not for anything else.

"Come on," Sérafine whispered. Her voice was even more beautiful when she whispered.

I followed her, as silently as I could in my dress shoes with their pointed toes and polished soles, up to what I presumed was her room, at the top of the house. I had to stifle a gasp when I walked in. It was large, it would be sunny in the day, and it was very much Sérafine's. Her entire personality was in this room. But the real reason for my amazement was the piano. In her room. It took up a lot of the spare space, but it was beautiful, polished but well loved. In the light from the moon I saw her smile.

"Like it?" she asked softly, still smiling.

I just looked at her, dumbstruck.

"Have a go!" she whispered, playfully.

"Won't anyone hear?" I asked, tentatively.

"They're used to me," she replied, "playing on this thing night and day. They just expect it, artistic temperament and all that."

I sat down, played a few notes. The sound was rich and full, but not invasive. It seemed to fit, to suit the silent house. Sérafine watched me, still smiling, backlit by the moon. She opened the window, letting in a rush of cool air. It was fresh, for once, being late at night. No fumes, just the distant sound of the late night bars and the occasional drunken shout, intermingled with the sporadic sounds of birds. Music in itself.

When she got bored of watching me, she came over and sat next to me on the long piano stool. Reaching over me, she rummaged around on the top of the piano, amongst all the half-finished manuscripts, and pulled out a single sheet of hand-notated manuscript.

"This is what I'm working on," she said, looking at it critically. "What do you think of it?"

She began to play. The piece was lyrical, soft and dreamy. Simple. Leaning towards her I read the title, a single word in her italic, flamboyant handwriting. "Nocturne". A lullaby then. A lament, almost. The notes swirled around me, conjuring images, ideas, thoughts. When she finished playing, I sat silently for a few minutes.

"That was...beautiful, Sérafine. Why don't you like it?" I murmured, still half-lost in thoughts.

She shrugged.

"I'm glad you like it though," she said quietly, her voice and her face completely unreadable.

Just then, she moved closer to me, turning my face to hers with a gentle touch of her forefinger, and kissed me. Properly this time. Not just the gentle pecks on cheeks and things that she so liked to destroy me with. This was passionate, powerful, and completely intoxicating. Her lips tasted of wine and cigarettes, and I wanted it to carry on forever. The rest of the night is just a blur of music and memories. The only time I saw her cry. I only remember snippets. Her hair on the pillow, mermaid-like. The way the moonlight played on her pale skin, making it glow. The feel of the satin of the dress as it slipped off her shoulders, the skin on skin, tentative at first, then more urgent, and the wish for it never to end. And her tears as they settled delicately on her skin and on mine.

She knew that was end, she knew she'd never see me again.


End file.
